Bound Together
by Night Hawk 97
Summary: Before fourth year, Harry's summer is interrupted by the muggles discovering magic. Reactions vary from terror to love, and conflict between opinions is inevitable. Unity between all magical races must be achieved on the off chance that things get messy, and won't that be impossible to achieve? Canon until GoF. No pairings.
1. Chapter 1

Hello again! This here is a snippet of the idea I had. Let's call it a… prologue.

Warnings: moderate language, **some of what Vernon says is offensive; he is a jerk and I am not trying to imply that his opinion is right.**

Pairings: none

Length: novel

Other: please don't expect daily updates, especially in the school terms. This prologue is a trial to test out the idea. Feedback is welcome, is this worth continuing?

**Disclaimer: Any lines you recognise come from Harry Potter and hence, are not my own.**

"English"

_"Parseltongue. Got it?"_

…

**21 June 1994**

The Prime Minister sat in his office, his mind once again drawn against his will to the _other world_. That world, from the talking portrait that couldn't be moved to the bowler hat favouring man, was something he actively tried to forget about. Alas, ignoring it could not make it go away.

The other Minister, Fudge, was the only wizard he'd had contact with, and first impressions did not leave an overall positive image. The portly man was aggravatingly condescending, looking down on him as if he was some ignorant school boy rather than the Prime Minister. He dismissed his worries with an indulgent smile and a flippant "don't let it bother you".

The only thing worse than the man himself was the bad news he inevitably brought. The first bombshell was, of course, that there existed a magical society, hidden from sight and out of influence of the proper law authorities. Now, when the Prime Minister cared to admit to himself that the magical world did exist, he disliked shocking lack of information he received and the fact that he relied on Fudge –who seemed a tad incompetent, mind– to keep his part of Britain from impacting the other.

And that lead to another point: Sirius Black. The mass murderer had escaped from prison almost a year ago and the worry in the Prime Minister's mind had only intensified since. Fudge had described Black as a 'muggle hunter', and the ensuing hour long conversation, to his horror, had turned to 'You-Know-Who' and the group of people who hated his folk (described as 'muggles', and even that sounded offensive).

Black had killed 12 British citizens in a case that was covered up as a gas main explosion. The more the Prime Minister looked into it, the more trouble he found. In the years before 1981 in particular, there was a whole slew of crimes that were actually the fault of this 'Dark Lord'.

The Prime Minister had never felt so helpless. Each of these people was a veritable army, and an undisclosed amount obviously had a vendetta against the normal population. He hadn't been told how many there were, where they were, or how to stop them and protect his country. No, instead he'd been told it was "all under control". This was clearly not the case. The fact that the vagabond had been terrorising both worlds for nigh on three decades did not denote to an overwhelming level of control.

The Prime Minister would have been content to let the other world exist, ignoring it as much as possible, if not for this realisation. Sirius Black was one man, but his disposition seemed to be a popular one. They were not under control, there was a very real danger, and it was his sworn duty to do all he could to stop it.

With the resolution firmly settled, there was only one last major hurdle in his way. The first time Fudge had shown up in his office was the night he had been elected. He'd left with a laugh, convinced that the Prime Minister would not tell anybody, if not only because no one would believe him.

The PM had been convinced of that at the time, but minds can be swayed and as a politician he'd been influencing opinions since he took the job.

He would go to his private investigators first. The evidence _had_ to be there, surely the inaccuracies would become apparent with a little in depth examination, and then the public could be warned.

…

**10 July 1994**

It seemed strange at first that a teenage boy, not even fourteen, would find the school term preferable to the summer holidays. Harry Potter, however, was not entirely normal; even by wizarding standards he was an odd one. Why, just the other week he went back in time to rescue his estranged Godfather who was framed for slaughter, only to end up running from a werewolf and flying on a hippogriff.

That was something he was still coming to grips with, but he had to admit that the threat of a fearsome mass murderer kept his relatives in a more manageable disposition. Mostly. After all, what would the neighbours think if a prison escapee turned up on their doorstep? Image, to the Dursleys, was everything.

"Boy! Where's that coffee already?"

Ah, and there was the reason for his fervent dislike of holidays.

"Coming, Uncle Vernon," Harry sighed as he carried the overladen tray from the kitchen into his relative's pudgy, waiting hands.

Vernon gave him a Look, "I won't have you sighing about the place like that, you lazy layabout. Get to your room, stay out of my sight."

Harry went gladly, snagging a couple apples as he went. Without even turning to verify that Vernon's face had turned an unfortunate shade of puce, Harry said, "My godfather likes to check in to make sure I'm eating healthy."

And that put an end to that.

Once in his room, Harry set into his homework with vigour. He'd managed to threaten his way into keeping his trunk in his room this year. Maybe he was pushing his luck, but he had no choice– the constant stressful disruptions were eating into his education, he needed to catch up or he'd never pass. He wasn't a study-nut, not by any means (that was the territory of his good friend, Hermione Granger), but he also didn't have much else to do.

He'd just laid out his potions text books in a futile attempt to chase down Snape's standards, when his door was pushed open abruptly.

Instantly, he slammed the book shut and moved it out of sight, out of mind. He was allowed his trunk, but he didn't want to see what would occur if his guardians saw him actually _using_ anything from his world.

Imagine his surprise when his Aunt Petunia, a stringent upholder of all things normal, didn't even look twice at the book. Her eyes were wide, the pallor of her face sending her rather horsey neck into sharp relief.

"Down stairs, now. Your world is on the news," was all she said.

He stared incomprehensibly at the bedspread beneath him. It was a little old, fading in places, but it had served him well, oh, and magic was on the muggle news.

He launched himself off the bed, through the door, which he overshot and slammed into the hallway wall, and thundered down the stairs, only complying to his Uncle's demand to stop running when he was within meters of the television.

There on the screen, plain as day, was the Prime Minister. His face was deadly serious, which somewhat went against the topic of discussion. He talked about wizard kind, magic attacks that had been covered up as terrorist attacks by yet more magic users. To back it up, he had witnesses to crimes who swore that they remembered being elsewhere while security footage clearly showed them within view of the incidents, though the incident itself was never recorded. They had medical and educational records of students that stopped at the age of eleven when they went off to join the other society. They'd found squibs to testify, and they did so with a certain vindictive gleam in their eye. One woman, Joan Wicket even went into Diagon Alley with a video camera and independent experts could not deny that the footage was genuine.

"My good people, we have been deceived, but no more. In recent years, many disasters can be attributed to the work of a magical madman, and the wizarding world cannot stop him. This man's actions, and the actions of many of those like him, have affected us and continue to affect us. The time has come for this hidden society to come to terms with honesty, and we must work with them to stop this terroristic threat to our people."

An echo of applause resonated through the dead silent living room. The camera panned over the audience and Harry saw some scoff, passing him off as mad. But the majority… they _believed_ him.

Oh sweat Merlin. Harry could barely breathe; something seemed to constrict his chest like a vice.

"Your secret is out, boy!" Vernon's voice shattered the silence. He sounded delighted. "For now our government will cooperate, but you know what'll happen next, don't you? Your kind's true nature will come to light; the things that can kill, control, mess with our heads! Oh, the officials won't be so accommodating then, and rightly so.

"You'll be locked up, they'll find a way to limit your disgusting magic, or maybe they'll just exterminate you all. It's happened before; the Jews, the poofs; now it's your turn to get what you deserve." A certain nasty smirk scrunched up his moustache.

"Mark my words, boy," he finished gravely, smugness oozing from him in waves, "You'll wish we'd been able to stamp the magic out of you before this is up! Better savour it while you can, your days are numbered."

Now, Vernon could not be trusted to know much about anything, but in this, Harry realised he could be right. Weren't his own family an example of how fear could twist and warp humane behaviour? For Merlin's sake, they _locked him in a cupboard_ just in case the neighbours ever saw a hint of his freakishness.

The Dursleys hated anyone just the slightest bit different from their view of normal, be it skin colour, religion, sexual preferences, magic. From an idealistic point of view, he _hoped_ his relatives were the worst muggles the world had to offer, but realistically he knew that history told of some horrors that didn't bear mentioning. Their view was shared by others, but while they themselves were too cowardly to do anything about it, not all were so afraid of what the neighbours would think. So it could get worse, but would it?

The world had come a long way since the 1940s. Surely humanitarians wouldn't accept another attempt at forced euthanasia.

No, magic would be fine, Harry reassured himself, the muggles were only against the terrorists, and taking out Voldemort could only help both communities and relations between them.

Harry tried to ignore the little voice asking how long it would be before someone decided that the term 'terrorists' should encompass all of magic kind.


	2. Chapter 2

**I think I should clarify, in case it isn't clear, but this will not be a story where every muggle just tries to kill every wizard and vice versa.**

...

Harry hadn't returned to number 4 since The Incident. He'd run the length of one block, then two, and though the park did not really provide any of the desired solitude necessary have a good brood over recent developments, at least it was away from the Dursleys. Perhaps he was avoiding things, but he had good enough reason.

The events of the morning had irrevocably changed things, and Harry didn't yet know how his relationship with the Dursleys would alter with it. His aunt was in shock and Vernon went straight for the proverbial jugular with those comments, but once the information settled in, he didn't know what would happen. Honestly, he wasn't keen to find out.

Still, he'd have to face it unless he planned to spend the night on the swing. It was then that he remembered he was supposed to have made dinner.

Aunt Petunia was going to kill him.

He needn't have worried, not for that night at least. He got home just in time, just as Vernon was walking out the door, ready to join his wife and son in the car. Harry's uncle looked simultaneously annoyed and disappointed –a mix that combined to only make him appear most uncomfortable– that Harry had managed to make it home before he locked up. One ignored warning of "no funny business" later, and Harry had the house to himself.

He needed more information. The television was informative, every channel focused on the breaking news. Already, squibs were appearing on talk shows. Some people claiming to be wizards were… entertaining. Suddenly, UFO hunters had a whole new lot of steam to roll with.

But there were those who responded with aggression, whether out of envy or fear, and squibs who used the opportunity to get back at those who had cast them out. They spoke of how eleven year olds were essentially given weapons and that even the first spells taught could be twisted by simple minds to serve dangerous purpose.

The other group rose up in response to the vindictive ones with a goal to counter this "exaggeration". They talked of all the amazing things magic could do, they put a fanciful spin on the idea, the majesty, the possibilities of science now that this window of opportunity had been opened. By the looks of it, curiosity had a bigger backing, especially when they got hold of an interview with an actual witch.

"Master Evergreen, you earned your mastery in transfiguration. Could you explain what you do?"

"In the simplest terms, it is the art of using magic to alter an object in a physical sense, temporarily turning one thing into another, if you will."

"Excuse me if I find myself sceptical. Could you give us a demonstration, perhaps?"

"Of course." She stood swiftly and the previously occupied chair became a puppy, inducing various "oohs" and "awws".

A physicist fainted when the puppy jumped into his lap with a demanding yip.

"What about conservation of mass?! You can't just get rid of matter or turn that much into energy!"

"You created life?"

The witch waited patiently for the commotion to die down. "No, it is still fundamentally a chair."

"That's the most active chair I've ever seen."

"If that puppy tripped and fell hard enough, it would splinter. If it was eaten by something it would still revert back, even if it was being digested or was already nutrients in the blood. Transfiguration is coaxing something to assume another skin or behaviour – a physical illusion. All matter and energy is only borrowed or tucked into non-space temporarily and must be returned."

Science was being rewritten overnight. The barriers constructed by the limits of technology were unceremoniously torn down. Speed of light the fastest you can go? Apparating, or taking a shortcut through another dimension is faster. Time travel? Don't even _go_ there.

Harry switched off the TV late into the night. Or was it early the next morning? No matter. He stumbled into bed exhausted from the emotional upheaval, now reassured that the government would not get away with launching an attempted genocide if they wanted to.

...

"Get up, make breakfast. Bacon, eggs, toast."

Harry groaned and fruitlessly tried to use his pillow to block his aunt's shrill voice. It was no use; feathers just weren't designed to impede that level of decibel.

"Coming," he groused, fumbling for his glasses and, once located, he shoved then on his face, managing to almost poke an eye out.

It was only when he was mostly upright that the day started to get a bit weird. It began, as mayhem was want to do, with a large black dog sitting at number four's front door.

Harry was suddenly far more alert and ended up scrambling out the door and slamming into the wall for the second time in as many days, while pulling a huge shirt on.

"Padfoot!"

The dog tackled him, slobber and dirt flying. The nice, clean floor… well, that was a victim of war, a tragic loss. He laughed and ruffled the mutt's scruffy fur.

A shriek interrupted what was obviously a reunion. Boy and dog turned away from the pile of limbs to see the owners of the house standing in the hallway.

"Get that- that _thing_ out of my house!" The Dursleys seemed at a loss as to what to do about this invader.

The dog sniffed disdainfully and clambered off Harry, managing of course to step on his stomach in the process.

The next instant, the trespasser went from a large black dog to a dishevelled man leaning casually against the pristine walls.

"Morning," he offered his hand with a smile that showed just a little too many teeth, "I'm Sirius Black; genius, godfather, wizard. And a renowned criminal, I guess. It is a… _pleasure_ to meet you."

Needless to say, that did not go down well. Vernon looked for a moment torn between the desire to shout and threaten, and crap himself. The later won out, and the family fled the hall.

"Sirius, what are you doing here?" Harry burrowed into the open arms properly.

He felt, more than saw, the man smile warmly, "Busting you out of this place. It looks so boring, how have you survived?"

"I manage."

"They haven't tried anything since the news broke, have they?" Harry flushed under the concern.

"No. They went out last night, I haven't seen them much."

"Good." The dark look lifted, the removal of the shadows and lines taking years off his face. "Grab your stuff, if you still want to accept my offer, that is?" he trailed off uncertainly.

"Of course I want to live with you," Harry couldn't understand why his godfather would think otherwise. "Help me pack, let's get out before they call the police."

Packing didn't take long. In a minute the books, parchment, other odds and ends had been stuffed in the trunk and the lid forced closed, and Hedwig's cage propped up under one arm. Sirius reverted back to dog form before the front door was once again opened and the party joyfully strode out.

Harry turned back to the Dursleys after a moment of thought. "Now, not a word of this, I expect? Imagine the scandal if a wizard criminal was spotted in your house."

His dogfather gave a nasty growl to punctuate the statement.

It was easy enough to walk to a place out of sight of prying eyes and have Sirius whisk them away.

Harry decided that he hated apparition. Of all the ridiculous and downright cruel methods of transportation, being forces through a tube at high velocity had to be his new least favourite. Luckily he'd not eaten breakfast, or it may have been gifted to the sidewalk.

"Where are we?" he managed after regaining his equilibrium.

"My lovely childhood home, Grimmauld Place. It turns out my parents never got around to legalising my disownment. Now they're all dead and I've inherited it. Never thought I'd willingly come back here," he said bitterly, giving the house a look that would quail even a she-Weasley.

"Shouldn't we get you off the street?" Harry suggested, nervously glancing along the lane and at the nearby windows.

Sirius frowned slightly, "No need. We're within the wards. My father was paranoid to the point of being psychotic. This house had just about every imaginable ward and protective charm. Well, except for your blood wards and a fidelius, but we can make do without. Now, wand out, who knows what's in there."

Harry gave a concerned look, "I can't do magic outside school, remember?"

Sirius snorted, "Legalities. Even _if_ the Ministry can pick up on magic performed in this house, they can't charge you. The trace is attached to you, not your wand, and as long as another wizard is in the vicinity they can't tell who cast what."

"Fantastic!"

The house was dark. Dark, dusty, spider webs littered the ceiling, creeks sounded ominously, very spooky; the whole nine yards.

Sirius sighed, "Where is that blasted elf? He's probably gone and died. Kreacher!"

Two things happened at once. The first was that the cleanest curtains in the hallway flung open, revealing an ugly, wailing portrait, and then there was a muted crack where the ugliest house elf Harry had ever seen popped in.

"BLOOD TRAITORS! SCOUNDRELS! STAINS UPON MY GOOD NAME AND HONOURABLE HOUSE–" Sirius swore and wrestled the curtains closed.

The elf bowed very reluctantly with a practically hissed acknowledgement.

"Kreacher, what have you been doing? Get this place fit to live in."

The elf growled, and popped away, while Harry stood shocked. "… Aren't they nice."

"Hmm? Oh yes, Harry, that's my dear evil mother and her nasty insane house elf. Welcome to the family, eh?"

...

The kitchen was a mess, but salvageable. Harry learnt several cleaning charms and practiced banishing the boggarts that had taken up refuge in the various cupboards.

"This place is in worse shape than I thought," grumbled Sirius, nursing a bruise thanks to what would be forevermore known as the Pantry Beast. From the brief glance he'd gotten, it appeared to have a slimy, mouldy mass with starchy tentacles and innumerable eyes, several of which Harry managed to slam in the door.

After burying the door under numerous locking and sticking charms, it occurred to Sirius that he could've thrown Kreacher in. Harry pointed look stopped that thought.

"Why don't you just free him and find another elf?"

"It's not that simple. Not only would the shock probably kill him and then we'd have a body to deal with, but the Ministry controls the trade and exchange."

"I knew an elf," Harry mused, a grin slowly stretching across his face. Somehow he thought Sirius would appreciate the story, and he was willing to try anything to lighten the mood. "He went against his master trying to warn me against Malfoy's plot in second year. In the end, I tricked Malfoy Senior into freeing him. I'm afraid that only increased his hero-worship of me."

The Animagus laughed appreciatively, "Go ahead and call him, who knows, maybe he's still looking for work."

"Dobby!"

There was a pop, then huge luminous eyes were leaning very close.

"Great Harry Potter sir called Dobby! What can Dobby do for great Harry Potter?"

"Er… thanks for coming, Dobby."

His eyes crinkled and watered. For a moment Harry feared he'd offended the little creature. And then he remembered who he was dealing with. "Harry Potter is too kind!"

But his joy changed in an instant upon seeing Sirius, and the new countenance turned him from something small and relatively cute into a veritable demon. He pounced with a war cry of; "Bad Black wizard mustn't harm Harry Potter!"

Harry was torn between horror at Dobby chewing on his godfather's ankle, and amusement. "Dobby! It's alright, he isn't here to hurt me, he wants to take care of me."

That stopped the wrestling pair, Sirius pulled out of the elf's choke hold and edged away. Dobby tracked him with a suspicious glare.

"That elf is barmy. Either the world has completely lost it, or I have."

Harry studiously ignored the mournful look sent his way. "Hello, how have you been, have you found another, nicer family?"

The elf's ears drooped, "No, Harry Potter, not many bes wanting a freed elf. Even less bes wanting to pay poor Dobby."

Wasn't that lucky? Despite Sirius claim, Harry was sure that he did not disrupt the order of the universe.

"Would you like me to hire you? As you can no doubt see, we need a little help." Harry barely to finish his offer before the ecstatic little creature threw his scrawny arms around Harry's legs. He only just managed to catch himself against the wall to avoid falling over.

Dobby was nigh on incomprehensible, but Harry got most of the important stuff: thank you, one galleon a month, have I mentioned thank you?

Sirius shook his head. "Is this what happens to people when they spend time with you? Or do you just attract the crazy ones?" He gestured weakly to the sobbing elf.

Harry could only shrug.


End file.
